“Sharon: I fell in the garden. Hurt my wrist pretty badly. Heading to the ER. Don’t worry, I’m okay to drive. Just wanted you to know.”
Sent 2:51 p.m.
I drove myself to Metobrook General. Sat in the ER waiting room for an hour. X-ray: fracture. Not terrible, but bad enough. They put me in a splint, gave me a prescription for pain meds, told me to follow up with an orthopedist.
I checked my phone in the waiting room.
3:14 p.m. No messages.
4:23 p.m. No messages.
5:47 p.m. No messages.
Drove home.
6:52 p.m. No messages.
At 7:38 p.m., my phone finally buzzed.
Jeffrey: “Oh no. Are you okay? Need anything?”
I stared at the message.
Five hours.
I texted him back. “I’m home. Fractured wrist. They put me in a splint.”
“Ugh, that sucks,” Jeffrey wrote. “Let me know if you need help with anything.”
That was it.
No, I’m coming over. No, do you need me to pick up your prescription. Just: let me know.
Abigail responded at 8:15 p.m.
Abigail: “OMG, Mom. I just saw this. Are you still at the hospital?”
Sharon: “No, I’m home now.”
Abigail: “I’m so sorry I didn’t see this earlier. My phone was in my purse. Are you okay?”
Sharon: “Yes, honey. Just a fracture. I’m fine.”
Abigail: “Okay, good. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
She didn’t call tomorrow. Or the next day.
I sat on my couch that night, my wrist throbbing, looking at my phone, and I thought about Frank. When he’d been sick, I’d driven him to chemo three times a week, sat with him for four hours each time, held his hand when the nausea got bad, never missed a single appointment.
When he’d been in the hospital that last week, I’d slept in a chair next to his bed every night, and when he died, I’d been right there.
I hadn’t been somewhere else with my phone in my purse.
I’d been there.
But when I needed them? Five hours. Eight hours. Radio silence.
I turned off my phone, went to bed, and cried into my pillow so quietly that even I could barely hear it.
August 2024.
Saturday, August 10th, 2024.
Patricia Moore showed up at my door unannounced at 2:00 p.m. with a box of pastries from the French bakery downtown. Patricia had been my best friend since nursing school. We’d met in 1984, both wide-eyed 22-year-olds who thought we could save the world. She’d lost her husband Tom five years ago. She understood.
“I brought croissants,” she said, pushing past me into the kitchen. “And I’m not leaving until you talk to me.”
“About what?”
She set the box on the counter, turned to look at me. “Sharon, when’s the last time you left this house?”
I thought about it. “I went to the grocery store on Wednesday.”
Patricia’s eyes didn’t move. “When’s the last time you did something just for yourself?”
I opened my mouth, closed it.
“Exactly,” Patricia said. She pulled out a chair, sat down, gestured for me to do the same. I sat. She opened the pastry box, handed me a chocolate croissant. “Eat.”
I took a bite. It was good. I hadn’t realized I was hungry.
“Now,” Patricia said, “tell me what’s really going on.”
“Nothing’s going on. I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. You’re disappearing.”
I looked up sharply. “What?”
“Sharon, I’ve known you for forty years, and I’ve watched you get smaller and smaller over the last two. You don’t go anywhere. You don’t do anything. You just sit in this house waiting.”
“Waiting for what?”
“For them.”
My throat tightened.
Patricia leaned forward. “When’s the last time Jeffrey came to visit? Not asked for money. Visited.”
I thought about it. Couldn’t remember.
“When’s the last time Abigail stayed for more than an hour?”
I looked down at my hands.
“Exactly,” Patricia said softly. “Sharon, they’re taking you for granted, and you’re letting them. They’re busy. Everyone’s busy. But people make time for what matters.”
“Do I matter to them?”
“Of course I do,” I said.
Patricia tilted her head. “Do you?”
She wasn’t being cruel. Just honest. “Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like you’ve become an ATM with a heartbeat.”
The words hit like a slap.
“That’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it?” Patricia said. “You gave Jeffrey $26,000 in six months. Has he visited once in that time?”
“He’s in Boston.”
